Tag Archives: sexy sex

We’re Too Sexy and We Know It

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Heyyyyyyy! All you sexy ladies out there throw your hands up!

Great. Thanks for being so cooperative. Now that I’ve gotten your attention by chaining those hands to a pipe in my makeshift chamber of horrors, let’s chat! I can’t believe you left the house looking that good. It’s working for you, girl.

We at Vomitola are very pleased that the level of national discourse on sexiness has finally been raised from dealing with mere garden variety birth control hoarding sluttiness. We all know the real issue at hand: a lady’s inherent rapeability. And then if someone achieves rape, was it a legitimate rape or just a shoddy pretender to rape? People need definitions! We are adrift in a sea of splayed legs and “was that a choke hold or was he just happy to see you?” Who can make sense anymore?

In this time of confusion, we want to help, you, the addled but sexy women of America, better plan your nights out. What am I going to wear if I want to be raped/unraped? If I select “raped,” am I looking to go legit or fly under the radar?

Ta-da! We are introducing a new free app, the RAPEOMETER! Simply upload a photo of your planned outfit for a night on the town, and we’ll rate you on a scale of Illegitimate Rape to Meh to Legitimate Rape. Is that top just grope-worthy or is it total rape bait? We know you want to know so you can adjust your secretions accordingly!

Once you select your desired rape threshold, if your outfit doesn’t measure up, we’ll provide an inspirational custom playlist and cocktail suggester to help you meet your goal.

Coming soon for iOS, Android, and Windows Phone (Although, spoiler, the default result for Windows Phone is “Not Sexy Enough to Rape Legitimately” UNLESS you have the pink Lumia).

So watch out and help others watch your asses, ladies! You’re not gonna rape yourself, after all. This has been a Vomitola Service Announcement.

I am not who I think I am

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Apparently, I managed to buy $220 worth of gas at a place in the Bronx that also hosts a check cashing place starting on the same day I bought groceries at Whole Foods in Massachusetts. I guess I *could* have nipped on down and returned in time for a ybab’s birthday party, stomach virus and all, but eh. And sure, my H2 is expensive to fill, but I have never spent more than $60 on a tank thus far, and I only fill up once a month since we walk to stuff. The plot thickens. Could it be that someone is playing funsies with me? I cannot imagine. According to the helpful American Express representative, these were pay-at-the-pump transactions, so I must have physically been there, buying $75 worth of gas once a day for three days running. There is no chance, none whatsoever, that my card details were re-encoded on a new card, or that some shady fucker has a shady fucker of a friend who works at a gas station/payday loan place in the Bronx.

I have got to get off the Ambien. If I can’t stay out of the Bronx, what’s next? Sleep fucking in order to get the hobo semen necessary to join the Gloucester High pregnancy pact? I have a few things to say to those poor girls: meet my ybab. I took her to her two-year-old well visit the other day, and she screamed and wrapped her legs around my waist like a monkey and would not stand on the scale. She fell asleep from sheer rage in the exam room, and thus and only thus was the doctor able to physically approach her and listen to her lungs and look in her ears. Perhaps my special purpose is to do ybab “Baby Think It Over” demos around the state.

Of course the “pregnate” issue is being muddled in with birth control access. Birth control access = good, as far as I am concerned (and I make sure to access it as much as possible), but what do you do about a fifteen-year-old who thinks having a child is a good idea? They are not interested in using birth control. Women may control their bodies, but deeeeeee-amn. Shee-it. What a mess. I also don’t understand the concept that there is only one dead-end community to live in for the rest of your life in all this great land. Why, move to Lowell! You could work at the CVS favored by 90% of the city’s methadone users and steal my credit card info from the Express Pay reader. And my ybab will have a fit on the floor and then bite you.

Unprofessional painting

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If me of now went back in time to warn me of five years ago that future/current me would be covered in flecking blue paint (Martha Stewart Surf 286) and honey-mustard sauce, me would not believe me! But it is all true. Me has no idea how me’s life turned out this way.

A few days ago, I had a few glasses of wine (with dinner, not at 10AM, although heaven knows…) and decided to start painting the bathroom a different shade of blue. I have good ideas all the time! I can’t even tell you how frequently. I have a whole folder on my desktop called “GOOD IDEAS!!!!!” My bathroom is 50% old blue and 50% new blue now, and I may work on it one hour per night for the rest of my life. Because either I get some paint in my hair, or someone wakes up and starts screaming, or a cat wants to come in because the door is closed, or maybe the fumes just become too much and I wake up on the floor the next morning even dumber.

After the bathroom is painted, I will have to tear the “shelving system” out of the linen closet. That means I will have to put better shelves in. I can’t just leave things in a heap in the bottom of the closet, much as I wouldn’t mind. It’s hard to find shelves. At IKEA, they expect you to cut them to the length you desire, like, with a saw or the power of your mind or something, so all their shelves are eighteen feet long. No. The Container Store has a sale on shelving, and that’s great, but everything is sold in systems, and I, a professional internet user, can’t figure out how to find JUST SHELVES. Single shelves of the correct length. In desperation, I typed in “http://ijustwanttobuysomefuckingshelves.com/” and crossed my fingers, but no luck there. Where do you get shelves, good people of the internet? I am hoping my own Google ads will tell me.

***
Local color report:
Lowell High School is back in session. Before we set out on our nightly trek for takeout, the phone rang: a “PRIVATE CALL” according to the display.

“Bee dee booop,” said the caller, voice breaking with hysterical giggling.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, your penis did not go through!” The caller then died from laughter and somehow managed to slam the phone down in a dying act of valor.

Once downtown, a roving pack of teenagers conspiratorially made the aside “PENIS!” to us as we passed. Then we passed Marty Meehan over by the Masonic Temple. He was going to hassle us about voting when a young voice shrieked “I like penis!” out a screened window from the housing project across the street. We continued on, not stopping to vote in the primary because we had already seen Niki Tsongas having a victory dinner two streets over at the one nice restaurant in town, oblivious to the penis crisis in the streets. If she isn’t in touch with the penis issue, she does not need my support.

“If we were actually insane,” I remarked to Mr. H, “we’d assume people were only saying penis to us!” One never knows.

How I got covered in honey-mustard is another boring story for another time.

924: I’ll give you something to cry about

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Dearest innernet, I realized that I have been remiss in apprising you of my widdle doings. It’s not on purpose. I just get caught up in other things. You know, day trading, taste testing yogurts, macrame. I have two eyebrows, and they BOTH need my attention. So get in line.

Last week, I threw my back out by, er, well, never mind. Did I mention Mr. H has lost four pounds? Just as this was mended thanks to tough love from my chiropractor, I was felled by strep throat. I have spent countless minutes trying to take a picture of the back of my throat, for it is truly a remarkable vista. Think the surface of the moon, white and pocked, a fragile crust wrapped around a molten core of pure agony. This is by far the most disgusting thing that has ever happened in my mouth. And that’s saying a lot, given “the nineties” and that time I had oral surgery and found a spare sixteen yards of gauze crammed somewhere back there.

So who knows what the next week will bring? Right now, it’s all over but the whining and a few more days of antibiotics. I am going to unionize for more sick days. Ybab still had the nerve to expect to be fed and entertained while I was feeling poorly! As I sprawled on the ground, drifting in and out consciousness, shirt off to allow her to eat once in a while with no actual effort from me, I wondered if my soon-to-be dead corpse would continue to produce milk to at least tide her over until Mr. H got home from saving orphans with Angelina Jolie or whatever it is that he does these days. Can you believe ybab doesn’t know how to make an omelette yet? I have to go look that up, post-mortem lactation. Google, get ready for me! I want to be number 1 for “post-mortem lactation” now. Get to linking.

Just lions smiling in the dark

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Yes, I know that’s the wrong lyric. That’s why it’s funny. Thanks for making me explain a joke, you freaking jerks! Cite your sources, you say? No, no, you say, that isn’t right. The pigs say OINK all day and night. If I told you what the rhinoceroses say, I probably would have to pay a royalty to Sandra Boynton and the good folks at Simon & Schuster, so I will cut it right off.

Anyway, sources. We don’t need no stinking sources and studies. We need to prevent something that might lead to cancer, and you are a woman-hating jerk if you say “But the Science, she are not so good on this one!” And suddenly feminists are OK with a state tying something that only affects a woman’s body to a woman’s access to education? I am talking about Texas and the HPV and the Merck and the money and all, but I am not citing my sources. And that’s OK, because we don’t do that anymore. We are the internet. Did I mention CANCER? More women die each year of septicemia, diabetes, and unintentional injuries than the form of cancer in question, which is easily identifiable with a routine yearly screening. In the US, this cancer is the 14th hottest form of female cancer, rating below Alyssa Milano and Kim Cattrall.

No, no, you say, that isn’t right. You must want all those little girls to get THE CANCER (er, you mean one of four strains of a virus that can lead to the cancer if not caught early by a routine screening, right? And you know there are dozens of strains, not just those four targeted by the shot? No, I mean CANCER is a sure bet! Do not pass go, go straight to CANCER in this argument!). I would rather those little girls and boys learn to use the condoms and attempt to respect each other. But that’s OK, abstinence-only whatever works great. And then we can paternalistically mandate protection for something that might happen based on an individual’s potential sexual choices to cover up for the giant lapse in education. And the protection comes with great risks in and of itself, and the longterm effects are completely unknown. It’s anti-woman not to promote informed choice. Or is it PRO CANCER?

I could probably try to make more sense and actually cite sources, but I am too busy attempting to graph potential agony in upcoming situations, neither of which involves cancer. Budget air travel maybe. Is this caused by a virus?

St. Vomitola so loved the world

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Now, in years past, I’ve had more time to revel in all the spectacular February holidays. Time to bring you such amazing seasonal designs such as this. February is like soaking in a bowl of paraffin, is it not? One emerges fresh and renewed. Or something. I didn’t even manage a Groundhog’s Day salute this year.

But today, Mr. H is home for a snow day, and we are all slowly eating each other. A ybab is yelling at me, and Scatman Crothers had a snowcat accident on the way to save us. So in great haste, I bring you the simplest tidings of the day, in a form you morons can understand.

Ri rove roo!

Let’s draw the line at genocide

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Saw that on the news last night in a story about Fidelity’s dealings with oil companies meddling in the Sudan. Fidelity says they have a legal responsibility to provide the highest returns to consumers, therefore they won’t rethink their choices. The reporter asked “So Fidelity is not willing to draw the line at genocide?” What a novel policy. A little mutiliation and oppression would be fine, Fidelity, as business is business, but draw that line!

Yesterday a ybab played a fun game called “Let’s cry all day.” Yes, let’s. Of course she settled right down as soon as her father came home, and her fever and general malaise finished by the time the doctor charged us $30 to say “Fluid in the ears, no infection. Teething.” Which I knew, but wouldn’t I be a jerk if I were wrong? On the way back, we saw dogs, so I guess that wasn’t a total waste of a leaving of the house.

I’ve been meaning to write about NBC’s segment on cocktail playdates last week. A blogger  got totally sandbagged by a stern robot of an expert, who asserted that women must never, ever drink in the presence of a child, and anyone who has even one drink has Issues and needs to learn a Healthy Way of Coping. I couldn’t write about this at the time I watched the segment, because it was 8 AM, and I was already drunk, and so were all my friends. Don’t you put Kahlua and whiskey in your coffee*? Now, we have been known to have a glass of wine with dinner because we don’t like coping. We do like wine, though. But, to the blogger’s point, there is a man around to keep me in line. Unforunately, that man is Mr. H, who has never actually managed to do this.

Meredith Viera had her “disapproving mother hen” face on throughout the segment. Perhaps she should go back to The View, where she and Barbara Walters and Rosie O’Donnell and that pretty-but-dumb little one can talk about being disgusted by breastfeeding instead. Rosie O’Donnell apparently didn’t let her partner breastfeed their baby past six weeks because she didn’t want to miss out on bonding too. Well, I have news for you: a ybab prefers the perfectly teat-less Mr. H at least 90% of the time. As a society, we’re OK with genocide, as long as it’s profitable, but titties, man, titties. Those are really scary. Especially when attached to drunk women. They are like twin frozen margarita machines, right there on the chest, where people can see them!

*This reminds me of one particularly awful job I had. My office wife and I would go hit Bruegger’s every morning for coffee and a bagel, and then we would nip into the liquor store next door for, well, nips to add to the coffee. And thus renewed, we would go back to our sublet lair in an unheated church basement, clap our leg irons back on, and enable the purchase of cut-rate vacation packages. You know, make the internet happen. But we drew the line at genocide!

Landshark

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Today I saw a beaver and some snakes. And a capsized boat. And people who labor under the illusion that one may successfully drive a car in deep water.

Our private island looks better. You can see the tops of the tires of the Honda Element left in the parking lot now. The mechanical room is hosed, pilule and they have to fix all the utilities before we can move back in. The building overlords say people will be escorted to their units on Thursday or Friday to survey any damage and get more belongings. Someone asked who might be doing the escorting, and I had to admit that this puzzled me as well. High class hookers, I hope. The kind who went to Harvard and can pass for your girlfriend.

Truthy, not facty, with annoying emphasis

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Today is the 33rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade. The parasite has learned to roll over, which feels rather odd. My mother always stood in the wings during high school and college hissing “You know I’ll always pay for an abortion, right?!” Now she’s inventing excuses to fly up and rub my belly. I should have bilked her out of abortion money while I had the chance. She’s never going to fall for an abortion a month now. Gestating is not nearly as uncomfortable and grotesque as I once conjectured, but I still wouldn’t wish it on anyone who didn’t want to do it. My resolve is strengthened.

Today is also the most depressing day of the year, mathematically (thanks, Lisa!). In unrelated news, through a complicated scheme, I will cancel my cable and restart it on the same day to get a free month of service. Why TV? I like OnDemand. I don’t like owning DVDs, and I am actually too lazy/busy to send Netflix movies back. It’s true. I just sent back one from July. We paid something like $75 to watch that movie. I wish Apple would get with it and figure out how to beam first-run movies directly into my head. I can’t see the movie screen because I need glasses now. Getting old is a bitch! I have toe arthritis. I’m not really 25, no matter what I might claim. Don’t listen to me at all.